Seeking Wisdom
by IrishFrenchy
Summary: This story is from Ziio's POV. If you're going to review, please be nice. Be sure to read the A/N.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Because the story is from her POV, things might seem distorted or confusing. She sees things differently than Haytham does and she had been left out of the loop in a lot of ways. The first few chapters are just a retelling of events, and are in past tense as she's recalling things. Later on, that will change. There will be a cannon break and things will go quite differently from there. In the end, really, this is an AU story. Enjoy, you nutters. **

_It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story._

_I know not of who said these words but they are the truest ones I have ever, ever heard. We are just a piece of a tale, one that is weaved throughout the long lifetime of this world that we occupy. And each of us, every one, plays a role in the pattern that is mended. It can either be unkept and dirty, or well made. As far as I can see, with the pale faces, with our feuds, with the death toll, this tale is weaved as a messy one. I cannot say one word, however, because to speak of it would be wrong. All I can do is press on and struggle to survive, as I have been reminded of on so many occasions. To dwell, is bad for the soul. After all, that is all anyone can do, to move forward. The rain falls upon the just and the unjust. We all suffer. We're all equals, in the end. _

_I am Kaniehti:io. Or Ziio, as most would call me. I am of the Kanien'Keha:ka tribe, the Mohawks. And this, this is my story. _

It all happened so quickly, all of it. The man, Haytham Kenway, infiltrated the Southfort Gate with his co-conspirators and he set my people and I free. But it was for a price. I was to help him. He was a man with a unique perspective on life. A Templar. A man of the Order. He didn't even need to say it, really. I knew his kind, the type who were strong and loyal. But I knew nothing of his Order. And the way he spoke, the way he kept his heart close to his chest, it was enough for me. And it was hard for me to resist trying to get through to him, to try and break down those barriers. I wanted to understand him.

I assumed he'd had a hard life, that he'd lost his family. I could look into his eyes and I saw pain. For a long while, there was only pain. But, things began to change and when he looked at me, there was something else. It was a spark. A spark of life, of attraction, of a desire that would be against the laws of his own people to fulfill. But it would have been so easy. The moment I met him, I knew he would be trouble. They were always trouble, the white men. But somehow, he was different. He was altogether a completely different kind of trouble. He was the kind of trouble that a woman runs to because she_ wants_ it. That's what scared me the most. I _wanted_ him.

You see, when I met him, everything changed. I never thought I'd fall in love. And never in a million years did I think I've ever meet someone whom I felt a burning desire for, or even something as basic as a need to make them happy or get to know them. A friend. A lover. I never thought I'd find that in a man. Not everyone does. Very few people ever find a man that they truly, truly and with everything in their heart, love. There are many different kinds of love but among them, that kind, that kind is rare.

It was like as if found my place in this great world when I met him and really got to know him. And suddenly, everything made sense. My place was to be by his side. I just knew it.

With him. _Always_ with him.

And since then, I've always migrated toward him. His nearness is calming, to say the least. I know he has his own agenda and his own plan for things, for the future. But, after all, he rescued my people from captivity and he's shown me nothing but kindness. Of course, yes, despite the fact that he couldn't even pronounce my name correctly, he's a good man. These white men, they have too many chiefs, but he's made a name for himself. He's tough. He's a warrior, in my eyes, even if he's from another "tribe", you could say. But I respect that about him.

He doesn't, and he never once has treated me as if I were dirt. He believes us all to be equals in the eyes of God, his God, our Gods. It's all the same to him. My heart beats the same way that his does, and the same blood that runs through his veins is the very same throughout my own, and we breathe the very same air. There's no difference. Not to me, not to him. Maybe that's why I'm so drawn to him, because he's so open-minded and so honest about the way he views life and the occupants of this earth. He's rather down to earth, as my mother would have said.

I took a chance the night he'd gotten into that bar fight, overhearing the Regulars' conversations for information on The Bulldog. He'd cut his face and I just couldn't resist. I never can, as my mother also used to say. Quite often, in fact. Call it a downfall of mine.

We'd been so close, he and I. I'd wiped his face with a cloth that had whiskey on it, if only to clean it as best as I could. He never even argued. And those eyes, those eyes could have been the death of me. I think he knew, then. At least some part of him did. It warmed my heart when he thanked me, too. There was a gentleness to him right then. His expression, the way he leaned into my hand as I cleaned his cheek. Everything about that moment felt perfect.

So much was still to happen, things I had both control and no control over. And in hindsight, I was naive in some ways. I didn't realize the damage men could do. All I was focused on was fighting the white man, fighting The Bulldog himself. I was a warrior. It was my job. Unlike my people, I wanted to take a stand. To make a difference and a change, for the better, one has to stand up for themselves. And each person is his own judge. I just couldn't sit back and do nothing. But it wasn't_ just_ me. I had Haytham by my side. He was the catalyst.


	2. Chapter 2

We took down the one called The Bulldog easy enough after months of planning. It all happened quickly, so quickly. We joined forces, so to speak, to take down the expedition. He promised to kill Braddock, to witness it with his own two eyes and see it through to the end. That was the deal. And afterward, when he came for me, I showed him to the entrance of the Grand Temple.

He was confused, I suppose, by the fact that he hadn't found what he had been looking for. His key didn't open the door. But perhaps it opened a different one. His investigation had come to stand-still. And upon seeing his disappoint, I went on to explain to cave paintings of our sacred Gods. I couldn't even stop myself from taking his hand and pulling him that tiny bit closer. Of all the crazy things, he thanked me for my constant kindness. But shouldn't I have been thanking him? He'd done all this for me, even though I was to help him in exchange for everything.

And when he and I kissed for the first time, it was bliss. _I_ kissed _him._ And I don't regret it. How could I? His lips were so warm on mine and his skin was chilled from the morning air. He smelled of leather and pale ale and Spring air. He was so tangible, so real. The way he held me sent a spark of electricity straight through my body.

I won't ever, ever forget that moment. It was the first time he and I came to an understanding. We always bickered, be-it lightheartedly, but that day, that day there were no words to say. There was nothing but the happiness I felt in my heart. My people, for the time being, were safe and I was in love. I felt like I was on top of the world.

To have plans work out the right way, to have something go the way you've planned so hard for, is a very satisfying feeling. It leaves you with a warm heart and a happiness that's hard to explain.

And the next few weeks passed very quickly, unfortunately. Haytham stayed with my people, with _me_. We talked of love and spending our lives together. But inside, I knew he couldn't stay. He would never be able to stay. He had an Order to answer to. He had a job. A calling. I couldn't ask him to stay when, in his own eyes, he still had so much to do. So I did what anyone would do, I absolutely I treasured those few weeks.

The first time we made love was beautiful. His hands on my body, his breath on my skin, my name on his lips. I'd never felt anything like it before in my entire life. It was passionate and yet it was sweeter than anything else. For a warrior, he was such a gentle man.

He spoke a little of his childhood as well. Little things, here and there. I learned that his father's name was Edward, a privateer turned pirate, a man who faked being an assassin in the hopes to become rich. But of course, things hadn't gone according to plan for him.

I knew not of the assassins but he explained who they were to me. He ran circles around me when he spoke of such things, if only because the ways of his people made no sense to a Native like me. Why fight when you can live in peace and love one another? I've heard men say it's not possible, to live without killing one another, but look at my people.

He spoke of his sister, Jennifer, a woman who had been kidnapped. He was still trying to find her now, so many years later. But his mother, he never spoke of his mother. The one time I tried to bring her up and ask about her, he told me she had been disgusted with him. I assumed something had happened, perhaps the night his father had been killed and his sister had been taken. That much was plain to see. I would've even gone further to assume that he'd tried to protect the family, perhaps, and his mother hadn't liked to see such violence. But that was merely a guess. To be completely honest, I didn't really want to even know the truth on the matter.

So, as I suspected when we first met, Haytham was an interesting man with a dark past. Some scars were visible, some weren't. But I would like to think, or at least hope, that opening up to me made things a little bit better for him. It's no good to keep things buried forever. Opening up to the ones you love is good for your heart. Letting go of the past and the things you cannot change is part of the process of healing, as my mother had once told me.

He was eccentric. And brilliant too, as I soon found out. He taught me to read and to write the King's English. I thought it was interesting more than anything. It wasn't like I would ever _need_ it. The way he curled his letters was beautiful to me. He had good penmanship, as he said it was called. The concept of it all was fascinating. And in return, I taught him a great deal of Kanien'Keha:ka, or at least what I could cram into two or three short weeks. But he was a very fast learner, regardless.

The only way I could describe him is as a broken man with a loyalty that was unworthy of his chiefs. Determination was practically his middle name.

But for all that he told me, I knew he kept most things secret. Not that I blame him, honestly. I have secrets myself. _Many secrets._ But his ideals and his values seemed different than the other men whom he worked with and associated himself with. He might have been a killer and done a great many bad things, but he had a good heart. He was respectful of his elders, of women, and of the smaller races of people. To me, that showed his quality. And he respected my faith and the way I lived my life. That meant more to me than anything else in the world.

Haytham's name, as I learned, meant "Young Eagle". A friend of mine, Anshu, thought this to be quite a funny thing, if only because my spirit animal is the beautiful golden eagle. She would say that we were meant to be and then she'd make a nice little funny face to go along with it.

I was surprised at how my people embraced him so easily, with open arms. They thought he was a fascinating man and he was amused by that, and he would always shake his head and make a comment about being a man who was actually quite boring. Perhaps it was because my elders trusted my better judgement. Or maybe it was because they knew I wasn't stupid enough to fall for someone who was an idiot, or a liar and a thief. But in that aspect, I wound up a bit on the wrong side.

He _did_ lie to me. When he said he'd killed Braddock, he hadn't. He'd injured him and left him to die, but the man died nearly a week later from his wounds. I was so angry. I nearly killed him myself, right then and there. I'd never been so angry. It was such a small thing and I couldn't understand _why _he'd lied about it.

"What is wrong with you?" I'd shouted at Haytham. "You manipulated me to get what you wanted." And god, the expression he bore in that moment nearly killed me. "I didn't," he'd said back, merely putting up with my shouting and hollering. His patience was incredible, thinking back on it now. "I was sure that he was going to die. I didn't expect him to make it. I didn't lie, Ziio. I _wouldn't_ lie to you."

And though I regret it now, I sent him away. I all but demanded that he leave. And so he went. He didn't argue with me. He knew he was wrong. But little did I know, at the time, I was with child. _His_ child. Thinking back on it now, I wish I'd forgiven him sooner.


	3. Chapter 3

There's something to be said for having children. Honestly, there is. I struggled with my boy, if only because I was a single mother but in a lot of ways, it made me love him all the more. Most of the women in my home village, Kanatahseton, were all raising families. But me, no, it was just my boy and I. And god, it almost scared me how much like his father he grew to be.

I took every day as a gift, even if I couldn't spend it with Haytham. That man was infuriating, to say the least. To even think of him made me want to jump right off of the highest cliff. One moment I wanted to go find him and apologize and kiss him senseless, and then the next I wanted to punch him with all my might. So in the end, I just stayed away. I knew he was only a town away, and I think that made it that much harder to live with. I knew I could have gone to him and apologized. But he manipulated me, or so I thought.

But I just couldn't understand it. I didn't want to. That awful man, Charles Lee, had come to tell Haytham something about his sister Jennifer, and that Braddock had died of his wounds. I was just so angry. Ah well, as my mother used to tell me, there's no point in dwelling on the past. It does no one any good in the end. And she was right. She was very, very right.

So our boy grew. Four long years flew by so quickly. Because of my actions in the attack on the Braddock Expedition, I was denied the position of being Clan Mother. It broke my heart, having to face a thing like that. No one ever looked at me the same way, but I didn't regret one thing. I couldn't. I helped our people, no matter what anyone says. Then there was Haytham. Had we not done what we had, he and I never would have fallen for each other. In the end, I didn't regret one thing, save for the blood split on that day. Taking lives was not something I liked doing, despite my being a warrior.

I feared for my son, knowing that Haytham was a Templar. His success, his life, it was far more important to me than my own. I wanted my son to grow and to learn. I wanted him to remain one of us and to stay on our land. But, somehow, knowing that both Haytham and I were restless spirits, and not to mention stubborn beyond belief, I knew he would be trouble once he became of age. He was practically born to run, he was, and it worried me.

I didn't want my son to follow in his father's footsteps. Haytham was loyal, to a fault, to the point where his judgement was clouded beyond comprehension. He was a good man lost in a system of liars and thieves. Why he couldn't see that, I didn't understand. So I steered clear of all that, if only for my son's sake.

And sometimes, sometimes the things we fear the most, in nightmares and bad dreams, do one day come true. I should have seen it coming. I should have been ready. But in the end, I wasn't. It was a nice morning, that day. I had just let my son venture into the forest to play with the other children. I heard someone call out and I _knew _what was happening. The Templars had come to tie up loose ends.

Something fell and knocked me in the head. From there, everything went black and when I came to, I was stuck under rubble. But it was also burning rubble. The rage that filled in that horrible moment was enough to nearly cause me to burst. This was Haytham's doing. All of it. My people's land was burning because of this. And as I thought about it, I realized they must have come for access to the spirit sanctuary.

I called for help, for anyone that would come but no one did. I just knew I had to get out and find my son. Minutes felt like hours as they passed. After a while, before the hut had completely burned down, my son came running in. I'd never been more relieved in my life. But for me, I knew it was too late. I was completely under a great pile of wood and I was badly hurt. I knew I couldn't survive. But Ratonhnhake:ton could. As he came over, I could only watch him. He told me it would be alright, that he'd help rescue me. My brave boy, I'd thought. This time, this time he couldn't save me.

He seemed to struggle for a lifetime, until I pulled him out of it, saying to him, "No, my son. You must leave. Now." He argued back, saying, "No without you." It bought tears to my eyes, having to force him to go. He had to listen to me, though. There was no other choice. I think, at least part of him understood that. The other part just refused to believe it. He was too much like his father for his own good, as it were.

I had pulled his little hands into mine, looking him square in the eye and speaking to him not as a boy, but as a man, as my own son, as an _equal_. "You must be strong, Ratonhnhake:ton. You must be brave." There had been a long moment that passed where he just looked at me, as if he were begging me to fight for my life, begging me not to talk of such things. But it was beyond my control now. "You will think yourself alone, but know that I will be at your side. Always and forever."

A village elder took my son, reluctantly leaving me behind, and that was the last I saw of him. He kicked and screamed and it shattered my heart. "I love you," I heard myself whisper. The hut finally collapsed but death did not take me as I assumed it would. Instead, to my own surprise, I felt a pair of arms wrap around my shoulders and tug me free. To be completely honest with myself, I thought I was dreaming. I thought that I had already passed on to the other world. But I was more wrong than I had ever been.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Hope you guys like it so far. This is where it goes AU. Everything thus far has been a flashback, as it's ****her that's telling the story. And now it's present time again. And another thing, 'cause I find it funny. I went looking through the Haytham and Ziio fics for the first time. There's a lot of similar ideas on stories. You know what they say, great minds think alike. Hah. Love y'all. ****Hope you nutters enjoy this chapter. ** xx

_And so this is how my life has been. It's all led up to this one point, this one moment in time, where death will take me. And my life has flashed before me, no doubt with a certain disappointment. But I'm proud of the woman I've become. I've raised a strong boy with a stout heart. I can only hope that it'll be enough for him, in the end._

A voice draws me into consciousness, pulling me out of my stupor. My head is pounding and every inch of my body feels as if it's on fire from all the pain. "Ziio," calls a voice. I recognize it, too. Warm, velvety, laced with a certain panic that I've never heard in it before. It's a little bit scratchier than I remember as well, but I suppose age does that to you.

I open my eyes to find Haytham hovering over me, his hands cupping my face. "You have to walk with me," he tells me, his eyes searching my face. "I can't carry dead weight. You have to walk with me, please. I know you must be in pain but you need to help me, at least a little bit."

I'm confused. I don't have time to yell at him or put the blame for all of this on him. In fact, I'm not so sure of anything right now. If I make it out of this, there'll be time enough for questions later. I merely nod, crying out in pain as I get to my feet with his help. His arm makes its way around me and he carries most of my weight as we walk, slowly making our way downhill. I can hear fire crackling and spitting in the distance and I'm barely able to turn my head, just in time to notice a couple of other huts fall to pieces. "My son," I choke out, beginning to cry. "Haytham, our son. Where is he? Is he alright?"

Haytham grumbles something to himself about me having lost too much blood. It takes everything in me to give him a tiny shove, forcing his attention to return back to me. "Tell me where _our_ son is, Haytham Edward Kenway. Is he alright?" Haytham chuckles a little bit, stopping dead in motion, his eyes finding my own. "You've still got spirit, I see. Yes, yes, of course he's alright. I saw him. He went and rescued the other children."

I give him a weak smile, if only because _that is_ my son. And so we continue our way. Somewhere along the way, I must pass out from everything. It's all just too much to really handle.

When I wake up again, I'm lying on a mattress. It's soft, feathery, and completely not what I'm used to. It's not very comfortable, if I'm honest. Groaning, I look around and I find Haytham beside me. His steady hands are stitching up a rather bad gouge on my side, just above my hip. I watch his hands work, trying to keep quiet because, for as much as I hate to admit it, that needle really hurts.

When he's done, his eyes rise to meet mine. "You_ need_ to rest and recover. You nearly died. I fixed you up alright, I think, but you're in rough shape. You must rest. I don't trust you to do so, though, so I suppose I'll be staying here with you for a while."

I roll my eyes, despite everything, and I look up at the ceiling of the little cottage we're in. "Where are we?" I ask quietly, almost timidly. "We need to get Ratonhnhake:ton. I sent him away. I made him leave. He thinks I'm dead."

He sighs softly, just shaking his head. When he speaks, his voice is husky from lack of sleep and deep down, I can hear a bit of sadness. He never was very good at completely steeling himself away from me. "It would be too risky to go out now. For me, anyway. Your people, I'm sure they wouldn't want to see my face right now, anyway. They'll surely blame the Order for what was done. They won't listen to what I have to say. Our boy is safe with your people for now. He's in capable hands. Even you being with me right now is very dangerous. And where are we? A home of a man who owes me some favors. He didn't seem to mind."

I brush my hair back, trying to stay awake and listen to what he's saying. "Haytham..." I have so much questions, so much to say, so much to think about. I look to him again, _really _looking at him for the first time in almost five years. He's older looking now, but still just as handsome. He's acquired a great deal of more scars, and not to mention gray hair as well. But he's still as handsome as he was the day I met him. I look over to the tiny take in the room, noticing that he'd hung his coat and hat up. It was nice to see him again, I had to admit it.

Before I can say anything else, he puts a finger to my lips. "You're thinking too much," he says quietly. "Don't say that you aren't. I can practically read your mind. I've always been able to. There will time enough tomorrow for questions and answers. Rest, please. Just rest a while. You need it, Ziio."

He moves closer, sitting back so he can lean against the wall. It's quiet for a while and we just sit there together. I could scream right now, honestly. There's a thousand and one things that I want to say to him. I want to ask him why he saved me and who was responsible for burning my village down. I want to ask if he's even missed me, or us. I want to apologize for sending him away all those years ago. I want to ask what he's been doing with himself for all these years. But in the end, I keep quiet.

My head turns in his direction and I just look at him for a while, admiring his figure in the candlelight. "I've missed you," I hear myself say. My voice sounds foreign to me and it breaks a little bit with some horribly suppressed emotion. I must startle him because his face scrunches up for a moment before he looks over at me. "Have you?" he says, cracking the smallest of smiles. I chuckle quietly, mostly out of frustration and not humor. He's just the same as he was the day we parted. "It's okay to admit that you've missed me as well, Mr. Kenway. And I hate it when you do that. Really, you need not answer every question with another one."

He rubs his arm a little bit through his tunic and then he turns back in my direction, eyeing me for a moment. "I know," he merely says, rather matter-of-factly. "But maybe I just fancy driving you mad."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: This chappie's a long one. Sorry about that. Had a lot to squish in. The rest of the chapters are way shorter than this one. Hope you like it. :)**

The next day passes by agonizingly slowly. I wake to find Haytham gone. I don't mind admitting that I have a slight attack of anxiety at first, but then I hear him outside. He's speaking with someone, quietly, almost like he doesn't want to wake me up. They're speaking of what's to happen these next few days.

To my own surprise, Haytham makes no plans to leave my side. The man whom he's speaking to, who is more than likely the owner of this old cottage, informs him that he's been labeled as missing by the Order. "Perhaps it's best that way for the time being," Haytham mumbles. "We'll find no sympathy from my men. I want her taken care of. Not killed for being a savage." He scoffs as he says 'savage'. One thing I've always admired about Haytham is his respect towards my people. He doesn't treat us like dirt. We're all equals to him.

There's a crunch of leaves as the man walks off. The gait isn't wide enough to be Haytham's. I could always tell if it was him walking or running. A minute or so later, I can faintly hear Haytham mumbling something to himself, probably a curse.

I'm struggling to get up and I'm almost amused to find that I'm wearing a man's tunic. It's loose, baggy, almost itchy from the material it's made from. "How do white men wear these, anyway?" I grumble quietly to myself. At least it was warm.

I slide out of bed, careful of my side and my stitches, and I slip my moccasins on. It takes a little while but I'm able to wander outside, grabbing Haytham's coat on the way so I can keep warm. It smells like him, like the honey soap he uses. I just can't help myself. I make it out onto the porch and I quietly come over to sit by Haytham's side, making myself comfortable. I try not to wince but it's harder than it looks. I'm in a lot of pain, not that I'd ever admit that aloud, least of all to the man beside me.

"Now that's a sight," he says to me, almost teasingly, commenting on the fact that I'd nicked his coat. "It's warm," I fire back in clear disdain, almost stubbornly. "Don't get any ideas." He finally turns to me then, looking at me for a long moment. Something passes through his expression but it's gone long before I've ever gotten the chance to recognize it or pin-point his exact emotions.

All at once we've gone from not seeing each other for four long, long years to teasing back and forth and sitting beside each other. Nothing has changed. Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing, I'm not quite sure yet. I just know I'm in big trouble when it comes to this man.

"I never did get the chance to thank you," I hear myself say in a quiet voice, and it's so unlike me that I'm a bit taken aback for a moment. He shrugs one of his broad shoulders, saying, "There's no need to."

It's understood in that moment, that we're _family_ whether we chose it or not. Family comes first. Even if he doesn't love me anymore, he acknowledges what we once had, what we've made together; a son. We're linked a way that's irreversible. And maybe, somewhere in his heart, he doesn't want his son growing up motherless. He's loyal. He couldn't just let me die. He had to make sure I was alive and that's why he'd found me.

"Haytham... I would have done the same for you," I nearly blurt out. "But thank you." I take a breath after those words spill from my lips and I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. This man, this horrid man, he makes me so frustrated. He leaves me unable to think clearly. And the worst part of it, is that he knows. He knows everything that he does. He's smart.

With a huff, he sits back on the porch-bench and he puts his boots up on the railing, crossing his legs to get comfortable. "You're welcome," he says after a while. There's no snarky comment to follow. There's no amused chuckle. No snort or creaking of the wooden bench as he gets up to walk off. There's just silence after he speaks. "And I'd do it again if I had to," he adds after a while. "You've saved my life on more than one occasion. I was just returning the favor."

I find myself getting choked up and he turns that head of his to look at me. He looks so bare to me, so vulnerable. Maybe it's the fact that he's only wearing a thin tunic and he's lost the hat for a while. Or maybe it's his sincere expression. All I know is, in that moment, I've never loved him so much. I've never _appreciated_ him so much.

"Last night," he begins. "Last night you wanted answers. I may not have the answers you're looking for but I will tell you this. George Washington was the man who gave the order for your village to be burned. It wasn't my Order, no matter what you may think. I overheard news of it the night before, in the tavern I'm in a lot. I heard soldiers mumbling amongst themselves. The Natives, your people, have been trading with the redcoats, or so I've heard, and he wanted to eliminate the threat you presented. This is all hear-say. I'm not entirely sure if it's fact. All I know for sure, really, is that Washington gave the order."

An anger fills me then. It's white-hot and ready to burst from my chest. I sit back, covering my face with my hands and just trying to relax and breathe a bit. He's still speaking and I try my best to focus on his words. "The boy is safe. I made sure of it. _Your people_ are safe. They've fled to another village to rebuild and wait this war out. That won't be enough, though. But for the time being, I suppose it'll have to be enough."

I brush a shaky hand through my dark hair, speaking through gritted teeth. "What am I to do now? Am I supposed to just go back to my people and ignore all of this? He may come back to finish the job, and what then?" I don't exactly mean to take my anger out on Haytham, but I'm too hot-headed to care right now.

"Well, what else is there to do?" he asks me, blatantly surprised. There's a flat tone to his voice, as if he expects me to just go on and act as if this hasn't happened to my village. I'm a warrior, same as him. "Ziio... Ziio, you nearly died. You're lucky to be alive. You're lucky I was there. You're just lucky. You'd have be brainless to want to do something. So what do you propose? Taking down Washington? Assassinating him?"

Almost defiantly, I turn my head in his direction and I struggle to my feet. "Yes. Why not? That would certainly teach the brute a lesson."

"Ziio," he says calmly, so calmly that it makes me even angrier than I already am. "Sit back down before you fall down. You are clearly out of your mind. You cannot decide a plan in a few minutes and then run off. You would die, and your death would be pointless. I didn't save you so you could go jumping right back into the fire. Besides, I'm tired and not to mention just mentally exhausted. I'm not in the mood for these games. I don't have the energy to argue with you."

I just blink a couple times, listening to him, saying back, "Each person is his own judge, Haytham. Do not tell me what I should do. Do not tell me anything. I appreciate you saving my life but it has to be worth something. I have to do something to avenge this horrible act. Why you don't understand that is beyond me."

Haytham stands up, finally, moving to step in front of me. And damn him. Just damn him. Why does he never make my life easy? Why does he even care about all of this so much?

I'm quick enough, still, because I shove my hand into his neck, two fingers on his pressure point. I don't press, though. It's only a warning. "We are made from Mother Earth and we go back to Mother Earth. Don't make me send you back there early, Haytham Edward Kenway. There will be no Spirit to guide you home right now and nothing can save you from a woman's scorn and this mother's worry. Remove yourself from my way into the house, please. I'm only going to ask nicely once. I'm going to get my son. He needs to know I'm alive."

This man. This confounded, stubborn, idiotic man. He's like an ox in a lot of ways. He doesn't even move a muscle. He knows I wouldn't seriously hurt him. So instead, I knee him right between the legs. He goes doubling over and I just lightly push him aside, stumbling into the little cabin. I almost chuckle to myself, if only for the satisfaction that actually gave me. He never even expected it, either. How unlike him. I slide out of his coat, hanging it up on a chair by the old desk in the room.

He comes in after me, hands still on his knees. "Don't go," he mumbles to me. "You're injured. You won't last out there. You need rest, relaxation, time to heal. You'd be insane to go out right now, especially on a wild goose chase such as this one. Ziio, just think about what you're doing. You know I'm right."

I take a deep breath, putting a hand to the wall for a moment. He's right and I know it. I can barely walk, nevermind travel. "If you're going to do this," he says, "then I'm going along with you."

I quirk a brow in his direction, almost laughing out loud. "So you do care. Admit it." All at once, he stands back up and he shakes his head adamantly. "On the contrary, I never said those words, Ziio. But you and I have a mutual hatred now for Washington. That's all it is. I have my own reasons for hating him. He's the exact opposite of what British America needs right now. He's putting a kink in certain plans." He never, ever divulges such information and I'm a bit taken aback. He's really only saying that to get me to stay, though, but I'll take it as a good sign never the less.

"And what of my son?" I mumble in question, almost grudgingly. "What am I to do about our son?" He's coming over to me, a hand on his hip. His expression falls a bit. Is that sadness that I see? I just watch him, almost afraid to hear what he has to say. "The boy's safe where he is. He's with his own people. He's safe there. As of right now, with this apparent plan of ours, which will probably get us both killed, we'd be better off alone. He deserves that much, don't you think? Let him be."

"But he thinks I'm dead," I remind Haytham, my tone full of sadness. I can't imagine what he's going through right now. He's just a boy. He's so young.

"And even then, thinking what he does, he's still better off," he says, adamant on the subject. On this Haytham is also right so I don't push the subject any further. But I won't deny that it breaks my heart in two. "So what now?" I say after a beat or two, looking back over in his direction.

He's busy looking at his stubbly chin on a piece of mirror hanging on the wall but I can see him looking in my direction as well. He thinks for a moment before saying, "Relax. When you're completely healed, when you're ready to fight, we'll come up with a well thought out, sensible plan. Until then, you best listen to me. You're no good if you're injured."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: I am so, so sorry for this late update. Time escaped me for a bit. A lot has gone lately, but I'm back now. Hope you like this chappie, lovelies. **

A month or so has passed by and I'm healing. We decide to stay at the little cottage to recuperate and try to form some kind of a plan together. It wasn't safe to leave and be out in the open. Everyone was looking for Haytham as well. There are whispers in town of people calling him a traitor, a deserter, a man on the run. If only they knew how wrong they were. What kills me the most is that Haytham's convinced that he can make them see that he's good, that he didn't desert them. No good can possibly come from such a mission, in the end.

From what I've seen, and from what I've heard, he's the_ only_ man with good intentions in The Order. He's surrounded by men who are corrupt liars. Why he doesn't choose r even try to see that is beyond me. I cannot make him see things. He must see them with his own two eyes and believe things for himself. A good man can do bad things for the right reasons, and still be considered loyal and pure of heart. That man is Haytham Kenway. A man with a unique perspective in life and an intricate set of morals.

And believe me, it's awful, being stuck with this man in such tight quarters. He barely ever sleeps and he barely eats enough to survive. He can sure drink, however, and that worries me, it does. His habits since we were last together have changed. He's not as healthy as he once was.

One day, I can't help but say something to him. We're sitting in front of the small fireplace, my eyes on him. "Why are you looking at me?" he asks, his tone even and gentle, but there's a slight note of curiosity to it. I tilt my head at him, warming my hands by the fire. "You have not eaten," I say lightly, not wanting to come off as if I'm pushing him.

He puts his journal down, dropping his ink quill beside it and just looking at me, an eyebrow shooting up. "I was not hungry," he fires back, seeming a bit peeved that I notice such things. This time, though, I hold my ground. It's such a little thing, I know. But I worry about him. Why, I don't know, because he isn't mine anymore but I do care never the less. "I just worry," I admit in a quiet tone, moving to get up. I slip into my buckskin overshirt to keep warm, if only to give myself something to do. The nights around these parts are cold. Cold and dark.

"You need not worry," he says back quickly, perhaps too quickly. The underlying tension only ever grows, building up to a point where I know we may just kill each other yet. At this point, we haven't even spoken about the day he left, never looking back.

But still, despite everything, I keep my mouth shut. He and I aren't supposed to love each other. It didn't work the first time and it won't work now. There's just tension because we've always been attracted to each other. Sexually, not romantically. He's ruggedly handsome and dangerous and he's everything I've only ever wanted. And besides, we're too much like each other, he and I, and that's the sole reason love was never in the cards. Two stubborn warriors will only ever butt heads.

We decide to leave the following Monday, heading out higher into New Hampshire to form a camp there, where we'll soon form a group if we can find able bodied men to help. There's just one problem: The Order.

Haytham's worried that his men are uneasy about the disappearance of their Grand Master. He's almost worried that they'll assume the worst, not that he's dead but that he's betrayed them. There's no time to think on it, however, because our plans are to be thrown.

It was the next day, in the early morning, a fog hanging in the air, when a man comes running to the cottage. He knocks on the door fiercely, as if he's in rush, looking around as he does so. So I go to the door and pull it open, a knife in my hand at the ready. Haytham's already getting to his feet, pulling his pistol out to aim it at the intruder. "They're coming for you," the man says, putting his hands up to show that he means no harm.

Haytham nods his head to the door, silently asking me to close it as the man comes inside further. "I heard it all over town," he begins to explain. "Thomas, he's me father, this is his land you see. He's the man you spoke with, the man who's letting you stay here. He's always had his own sympathies for the Templars. That's why he's letting you stay here, he is. But they're coming for you, the Templars, and I heard 'em talking about it in town. They know you're here. I don't know how, but they do. They're going to kill you and the Native. You have to leave."

If there was ever a moment when a silence truly has fallen, it would be right then. Haytham looks taken aback more than anything. I turn to him, an angry expression finding my face. "Do you see?" I nearly spit at him as I speak. "Your precious Order have already labeled you a traitor. They will kill you, Haytham. And I as well. This boy is right. We must leave, now."

I don't wait for Haytham to resume breathing or learn how to speak again. I rush to pack my rucksack, taking everything that we'll need. He finally moves, slipping into his coat and pulling his hat on. "Thank you, young man," he says to the stranger, throwing him a thankful look as well. "Speak not a word of this to anyone. Best you not even breathe a word to your father. He'll just expect that we left. You should be on your way as well, if only for your own safety."

My heart sinks at the sound of men outside. "I was too late," the man says to us both, as if he's realized his worst fears have just come true. Haytham brings a hand up to touch his forehead and groans. Suddenly, rather abruptly, he turns to me and he takes my hand, saying, "Stay here with the boy. I won't let all three of us be killed. Stay here, do you hear me? Please, Ziio." There's a look on his face then, one that almost says, 'I won't lose you again.' But the words never leave his lips, they only hang in the air like a cloud of heavy tobacco smoke.

Nodding my head to him, I finally turn to the boy. "Stay with me," I tell him, my voice strong and unwavering. "I'll protect you. You have my word. I appreciate you coming to tell us about the Templars." As I'm speaking, Haytham is putting his pistols down on the desk and then he gives us one last look, pulling the door open and walking out with his hands raised. "You found me, yes," I can hear him say, just faintly. There's more voices, maybe four more, and then I wander over to peak outside. "There are only five of them," I say with an unamused snort. "They obviously did not think before coming to find us."

I'm watching still, eyes focused on Charles Lee as he approaches Haytham. I find myself flinching when he pulls back to hit Haytham with the very butt of his pistol. Haytham, the poor soul, falls to his knees and takes it like a man. "You're a traitor to The Order, even after everything you accomplished with us," Charles says coldly, all but spitting the words. His eyes flicker to the cottage before he adds, "And are you alone? Who's with you?"

I can just barely make out him lighting a wooden match. "I suppose it doesn't matter, really. But it doesn't hurt to check," he says with a chuckle. My heart begins to race and I turn away, leaning my back against the wall and trying to breathe deeply. I would be lying if I said that I wasn't horrified beyond all means of fire and what it's done to me. The mere thought of what Charles is about to do fills me with fear and apprehension, a bitter taste for me.

It's not that I'm afraid to die, because I'm not, but I don't want this poor young man being killed in the process. Or Haytham, for that matter. The only reason he's in this mess is because of me, because he had to go and save me. We can argue or think whatever we like, but when it comes down to it, be must still feel something for me to have put his own life and duty on the line. He knows full well what's about to happen.

As if my fears need to be confirmed, I can hear him shouting something. My eyes slip closed for a moment as I try to ignore the chaos outside. They must be dragging him away by the sounds of it. God knows what they'll do to him. Sure enough, I can hear the crackling sound of fire on the porch and the tiny one-room cottage begins to fill with smoke. "They're going to burn us alive," the boys says, panicking, breaking one on the windows to help let the smoke out.

For a moment, I'm frozen where I stand, unable to do anything. I turn to look outside, seeing Charles looking in our direction as he swings his leg up to sit on his horse. He chuckles, too, the bastard, and then he trots off. Haytham's fighting for his life, he is, trying to get away, to come back to us. It kills me, only because I know he couldn't care less about_ himself_. He cares about _me_. It makes me wish I'd had the strength to say so many things to him when I'd had the chance. "C'mon," the young man says to me, taking my rucksack and shaking my shoulder. "We need to try and find a way out. Don't just stand there. Mr. Kenway's on his own now. And so are we."


End file.
